


colour me blue.

by south_like_sherman



Series: oh, freedom [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ? - Freeform, ??? - Freeform, Again, Angst, Borderline Poetry, Canon Era, F/M, Freedom, Hanging, I'm sorry ok, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infidelity, Letters, M/M, Metaphors, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poetry, Revolution, The Gallows, UGH WHY, a-fucking-gain, guess what kids, hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, i did the, mentions of hanging, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10297670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "It's funny how blue tastes like the hangman's noose. In other words, it's funny how John's lips are so close to the gallows. It's funny how you keep kissing him anyway. It's funny that he doesn't stop you. It's funny how you think he'll end up on on the end of a rope anyway, and it'll be his own hands that fasten the knot. It's funny how thinking about it makes you want to be sick, how you think you'll do anything to stop that happening. It's funny how near the hanged man's rotting flesh is to your own. You want to pull everything apart and eat it raw. You're hungry."oralex is falling into his grave, and john is dressed in blue.





	

You meet in smoke. In blood, and copper and rust. You meet in the shouts of men and screams of horses, because even animals can scream in wars. In revolutions. And God, doesn't that sound oh so grand. Because you're fighting for freedom, aren't you? You think you are, but maybe you're just passing from the rusted fingers of one king straight into the shining grandeur of another. But, it doesn't matter, because it's the ideal of freedom you're fighting for. Not the reality, in any case.

The point isn't freedom here. The point is, you meet, and briefly, you're beautiful. John is dressed in blue, and _freedom_ , you think. Freedom. This, here, is freedom. John's eyes and the sky and John's freckles and his rib cage, and the way it expands when he breathes, the way the air seems somehow better now he's given a bit of himself to it. You're reminded of a cup that's overflowing with water, a cup which has been filled the brim and is so full its spilling over. It that makes sense, for some reason. John is a cup full of water, and you want to drink him because God, you're so _thirsty_.

The kind of thirst that settles deep inside you, the kind of thirst that sucks all the moisture from your dry lungs, the kind of thirst that kills everything living in the desert. Yes. Your body is a desert, and there's a drought, and you think you're dying. And then the skies open, and it's beautiful. There's rain clinging to your eyelashes, dripping down your cheeks and the ground is soft and giving beneath your weary feet, and you think you can eat the world raw. So—skies open, and you think of freedom. Of freckles and eyes and rib cages. Of blue uniforms and sunflowers.

In other words, you think of the boy with gold in his smile and flowers winding through his hair, because his mind is a garden, after all. You think if you split his skull open, you won't find a brain— you'll find seeds. You'll find flowers and leaves and trees, and you'll wonder how he can even think for all the stems. For all the petals. Then you start to wonder if the seeds are thoughts, if the flowers are ideas, and it makes sense. Feels more like home. More like freedom.

You don't remember a lot in the blur of revolution, in the glorious cries of men who think they're dying for a reason. ( _Reason_ — ha. You know better than reason. You know the widowed wives who will weep into their embroidery, know the way their purse strings will tighten along with their grief-stricken faces. You know all too well what happens to the ones who are left behind.)

Well, that's a lie—you remember a lot, in fact. You remember the way he folds you into his arms, like if he holds you tight enough you might meld together. Might become indivisible. You remember the way he smiles at you like the sun is shining through your eyes, like he's a sunflower (which doesn't really make sense, in retrospect. Because in the end, you're not the sun, and he's not a flower. But he's lovely, and isn't that enough?) (Answer: Wrong. _Wrong_ ).

You remember the purple of his blue uniform when touched with scarlet, and you remember trying to forget how it was stained. Trying to ignore the purple spreading across his veins, into his heart and forcing it to beat in a different rhythm. You know that rhythm, too, and that's so much worse. _War_ , it says. _War_. Then you press your head to his chest, listen closer and hear something else, something you know. Something like Freedom. You don't know when you started capitalising that, but you have and it makes sense. It's Freedom, capital _f_ because names are supposed to have capital letters, and you think Freedom has become synonymous with John. Think there's no difference, because John means Freedom now.

What you mean, is that John's dressed in blue and he's going to fight. You're blue too, and you _feel_ blue—blue and red and purple, like you're already bruised. Like the fight's already over. And you think it is, think you've already fought enough and you've won and you've waved a blue and red and white banner, watched it flutter at the dawn of a new golden sun and screamed at the top of your lungs— _Freedom_. Then someone presses restart and the flag is falling from your hands and you're still bruised but you're not _finished_.

He's speaking in a different tongue, you know that much. It's something softer. Something warmer. You love the way it sounds, the way it drips from his lips and whistles through his teeth. You lick it out of his mouth because you've always been selfish, and it tastes good on your own tongue. Tastes like home, and palm trees and coconuts. Hurricanes and summer rains.

It's funny how blue tastes like the hangman's noose. In other words, it's funny how John's lips are so close to the gallows. It's funny how you keep kissing him anyway. It's funny that he doesn't stop you. It's funny how you think he'll end up on on the end of a rope anyway, and it'll be his own hands that fasten the knot. It's funny how thinking about it makes you want to be sick, how you think you'll do anything to stop that happening. It's funny how near the hanged man's rotting flesh is to your own. You want to pull everything apart and eat it raw. You're hungry.

And, you meet in moonlight. Or, not _you_ — not John. Not freedom. No, her name is something else—something longer and more elegant, veiled in lace and petals and stars. And she's lovely. You're pressing your blood-stained lips to her soft, delicate hands because you've never been able to resist touching lovely things, even though you know you'll ruin her soon enough, because you know everything you touch will die. You can't find it in yourself to care.

Soon enough, she's wearing white and she's smiling. Something sweet and soft and hazy, something lovely. It makes you think of violets, and you like that. Her dress is soft too, and her skin and her lips and her heart, and all you can think is how easy she would be to shatter. You hope she doesn't, because you don't think you could bear that. At some point or another, her smile falls apart and you can't piece it back together. At some point, you tear her dress with your fingernails, and her skin is far too fragile to withstand your knives. Her love is stronger, though. Will not be trampled underfoot, and you think you might've got it wrong. Think she might be a poppy, blood red and brilliant, and so achingly fragile. You want to touch her.

You can feel the boy dressed in blue burning holes in your back, and you think he might hate you. Later find out that it's far from the truth, find out with teeth and tears and whispers. With lust and kisses and grave-yard hips. _Mine_ , he says, nudging at your thighs. _Mine_. You're his. Or he's yours, and something belongs to someone but you don't know what. Your heart. Your lungs. His mind and his blue, bruised skin. You want it all.

Then the war is over, and he won't come home. The war is over, and his gun is still aloft and he still fires bullets into the sky like he hopes one will twist upon itself and strike him instead. The war is over and they're free, but it's not enough. He's painted blue and he's snarling through his teeth, but his letters drip with honey, drip with soft words and declarations of love like it's still enough, and there are sunflowers pressed between the lines. You ask him to come home.

His neck is so close to the hangman's noose. His fingers so close to the trigger.

You press your own fingers to your throat just to feel something, and your pulse is still there. You want to tear it out. Want to bleed. You want to be purple and bruised, you want to live. You want to taste blood and salt and copper in your mouth, you want to rust, you want to be called perfect. You want to fight. You want Freedom. You want John.

There's a girl by your side, you know that much. There's a girl pressing a small bundle of something into your arms and smiling, soft and weary and veiled in stars, and she's telling you something. You don't know what, but— _look at your son_. Look at your son. With bright, dark eyes and tight curls and tiny, delicate cries and tissue paper skin. You hold him as gently as you can, because your fingers are knives and it would be an awful shame to tear such a lovely thing.

This is what you fought for. This is Freedom. (Blue uniforms and bruises. Rib cages and eyes and sunflowers. A length of rope and a pair of hands.)

It ends with a letter. (You met in smoke.)

The girl's there still, and she's reading something from the yellow parchment and bloody ink, and you wish she wouldn't. Wish she'd stop. You want to march over to her, want to rip that letter out of her petal hands and tear it to shreds with your knives. (Your fingers). Want to watch it burn. Want to pretend Freedom is still alive. That the boy in blue is still coming home. You want to press against his rib cage and listen to his heart beating for something other than war. You want sunflowers and fingers between your thighs. You want home. You want an awful lot.

You don't get any of these things though. You pick up your pen from where it must've fallen, and try to clench it tighter between ivory knuckles, ignore the trembling of your fingers. (You want to throw your knuckles in the air and see how they land. Want to read your own fate, want to tear apart your bones.) She asks you something in that soft, gentle tone that people reserve for the sick or elderly, and you think you must've answered because she's leaving and you're scared she won't come back. You don't want her to go. And, _oh_ , you want _Freedom_. More than anything else.

You want to fall into your grave, into his hips and you want his sunflower smile and his forest of a mind. You want to press the pen into your own skin and carve his name there, you want ink and blood and Freedom in your veins. You want to shatter your rib cage and break apart your heart, you want to tie your own noose. You trace your spine, rubbing over the delicate nobs and think how easy it would be to snap yourself.

John is dressed in blue in your mind. He's dressed in blue and he's singing, his lips pressed to your ear, and you want to hit him. Want him to hit you. Want to rake your fingernails over his velvet back and leave marks, want to make sure he's real. God, that doesn't make sense—

In other words, you wish he was here.

In other words, you want to press him into your bed and kiss him until your lips bleed, until you've stolen his breath and he's in your lungs, on your tongue. You want to kiss away the blue and make him yours, want to hear your name drip from his lips. Want to catch it in midair and lick it back into his mouth.

In other words, you want Freedom. (Blue uniforms and sunflowers.)

You're falling into your grave and you know it. You're knotting rope and writing sonnets about something in a strange tongue, you're stripping away your flesh and wondering if you can fall apart if you try hard enough.

And— breathe, breathe, _breathe_ , even though your breath is fire and your lungs are empty and aching. Breathe despite the green of your veins, despite the sweat you lick out someone else's palm, despite the rapid hammering of your heart. You think it might burst out of your chest, think you might just rip yourself apart and spill everywhere. Think you might enjoy it.

Wait, _wait_ —

You met in smoke. You're fighting for Freedom, and John's mind is a garden, your body's a desert—

 _Wait_ —

You're splitting open your own skull and he's holding you, you're tying a noose and he's hanging by his wrists—

 _Wait_.

You're falling into your grave, and John is dressed in blue.

_Oh, Freedom._

**Author's Note:**

> i use too many metaphors fight me  
> please give me validation i am small and insecure and comments make me cry  
> um  
> tumblr is [here](http://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) if y'all wanna find me there  
> thanks for reading! have a lovely day!
> 
> ~ Kinzie


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